His Summer dried that evening sour,
Young Homer lay dying, his field, each hour.
Laid , as if slain, like the Lamb,
Pain disquiet until movement began.
His words could not say, what they actually meant,
a wag of his tail, a thought of response
Panting his way bid death's masked Babel,
Like Cobalt metal it drew his labe..
Cleansing his soul with God's peace to last,